


Devotion

by aishahiwatari



Series: Humanity [8]
Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Companion Piece, Crying During Sex, Episode s01e08: You Found Me, Kissing, M/M, Missing Scene, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Piercings, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, Reunion Sex, Rimming, Swearing, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:35:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22923430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishahiwatari/pseuds/aishahiwatari
Summary: Butcher really fucking hates supes.There’s not a good or decent one among them.Translucent, for all he’s stuck naked in a cage being regularly threatened with death, proves him correct all over again, the first time he and Butcher are alone.
Relationships: Billy Butcher/Hughie Campbell
Series: Humanity [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1448371
Comments: 48
Kudos: 482





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I would consider chapter 1 to be properly part of this series.
> 
> Chapter 2 is how this series would go, if we only ever saw season one of the show. It feels like an ending, rather than a break, and so I am not considering it part of this ongoing canon.
> 
> That’s where all the porn is, though, if you’re here for that.

Butcher really fucking hates supes.

There’s not a good or decent one among them.

Translucent, the smug cunt, for all he’s stuck naked in a cage being regularly threatened with death, proves him correct all over again, the first time he and Butcher are alone.

“I can see why you keep the French guy around,” he says, as well he might, because Frenchie’s going to solve this puzzle and Butcher’s going to fucking execute both his plan and the invisible wanker sat in front of him. “But what’s with the cute twink? Where’d you even find him?”

Butcher allows nothing he’s feeling to reach his expression, but inside he seethes. Hughie is good, and kind, and he is not to be dismissed as some fucking sex object.

He’s not sure exactly why he stays to hear more. Maybe he feels like storming out would give too much away about the strange affection he feels for the fucked up, grieving young man with whom he has an indecent amount in common. Maybe he wants to punish himself. Maybe his morbid curiosity gets the better of him, like watching a car crash he knows he can do nothing to prevent.

“I mean, I know why you kept him,” Translucent goes on, and Butcher had known it was coming, but it still makes him sick to know that every single one of these superpowered cunts has nothing on their mind but how they can stick their dicks in innocent humans. “Pretty little thing like that. It must have felt pretty good, having that mouth wrapped around your cock. It looked like it did. And when he creamed his pants the moment you touched him, that was something else.”

Butcher needs a way to kill this cunt. He knew it before, but he feels it now with every fragment of his being.

“I have seen a lot. But that was- exceptional. What did you say, to convince him? Or was it just your natural charm?”

Butcher leaves him there. He needs a direction for the rage building up inside him, preferably one that runs through the voyeuristic bag of shit sat in that cage.

Killing him has been a necessity for a while, but now it’s something Butcher’s really going to enjoy.

-

He sees Hughie, covered head to toe in blood and gore, absolutely terrified but standing tall anyway, doing something he’d sworn he’d never do, just to save their fucked up little group of criminals.

He wants to keep him.

-

“You- did have a dog at some point, though, right?”

Butcher can’t resist. He grins at Hughie and says nothing.

It earns him a disconcerted look and an eye roll.

-

On the bench, in front of that same security camera, that same cursed stream of footage that records where it all went wrong, after a conversation Butcher had never thought he would have with anybody, Hughie moves, slowly and deliberately, making sure he has Butcher’s attention before resting his hand, palm up, on the seat between them.

He's seen Butcher at his worst. He witnessed him abuse a group of victims earlier that day, even. And yet he doesn’t flinch when Butcher covers that hand with his own. He just threads their fingers together and smiles to himself, a silly, secret little thing.

He’s happy.

Butcher’s heart feels like it’s caught in a vice.

-

Hughie takes Starlight bowling. It’s kind of cute. Very high school. Although not too many high school kids that could lob you down the lane as readily as they could a ball.

Somehow, Butcher manages to keep his mind on his own task, without wondering what the fuck Hughie’s getting up to in there because he sure as fuck has not yet installed the fucking bug that is the purpose of his little trip. Honestly, it’s like he forgets that pretty, blonde Starlight could kill him with a look.

Butcher glares at the screen of his phone so intently and for so long the shape of the tracking app is imprinted on his retinas. She could be killing him in there, or worse, and he’d have no fucking clue. He wouldn’t even know to feel the loss until she emerged, and Hughie didn’t, and there would be no hope for justice in a system that punishes honesty and values spangly costumes and unmitigated power.

He’s been eyed with increasing concern by Frenchie the whole fucking time and when Hughie finally gets his shit together, he says, “He’s fine. I told you he could do it.”

Butcher makes some kind of begrudging, affirmative noise, still glaring at his phone, checks the connection is working and finds it is.

Well, at least they got one fucking good thing out of the day.

-

He tries to do the same thing and keep his distance when Hughie and Starlight fuck off to a bar together, but his patience is wearing thin by then and Frenchie’s concern has become more for Hughie than him.

He listens with gritted teeth, from outside, hears the way Hughie tries to keep his mind on the task but is derailed by Starlight’s pathetic sob story, and then-

Silence, or not quite.

Maybe anybody else would consider it a dramatic pause, but Butcher knows Hughie, he knows what motivates him and draws him in and fuck, he knows what kissing him sounds like.

He slams out of the car.

Knowing what’s happening doesn’t make seeing it any easier. Butcher doesn’t let himself flinch, because they’re not- he isn’t- he has no right. But- fuck.

He doesn’t even sound like himself when he says Hughie’s name, and by the end he’s just being an arsehole for the sake of being an arsehole.

Actually, by the end he’s threatening Hughie’s life and security, but-

Hughie gets the message, anyway.

-

Butcher asks, once. When Hughie’s flushed and sated and damp with sweat beneath him, relaxed and heartbreakingly gorgeous, preparing himself to go clean up the mess they made. He regrets it the moment he says the words, “If you had to choose-“ and then he stops because it’s already too late. Hughie knows him too well, sees right through him, especially in these moments.

“What, if you were both in front of a firing squad, and I had to save one of you? Who would I choose?”

Shameful, dreadful, hopeful, Butcher nods.

“I think you know.”

Butcher does. And he fucking hates it.

-

Mesmer is a cunt.

Butcher’s always suspected, but he’d hoped he wouldn’t have to see it in action, threatening his life and his mission and all he holds dear.

The cunt runs, too. Like he hadn’t suspected this. Like Butcher hadn’t made it very clear what would happen to him if he snitched.

And apparently his psychic fucking powers work even when the skin to skin contact is a solid punch to the head. Who knew? It’s not like it matters, what he knows. Neither of them will be leaving the room in any condition to repeat Butcher’s deepest darkest secrets, so he uses it.

He’s done a lot of terrible things to people who got in his way, since what happened to Becca. And that’s not all, any more. Mesmer threatened the people Butcher has at his side, the ones who don’t run from him, the rare fucking diamonds in a sea of shitty humanity.

He threatened Hughie.

That betrayal is fresher, rawer than what happened to Becca and maybe it doesn’t run as deep, isn’t the driving force behind everything he does but it doesn’t need to be, not when Butcher can combine both swirling tsunamis of rage and channel them right into Mesmer’s fucking head.

First by way of a bit of psychic communication, and then by way of a short, sharp meeting between thick skull and thicker ceramic.

Why the fuck, after all this time, do people think he’s not serious about his threats? It’s fucking baffling.

-

Butcher notices that Hughie leaves to meet Starlight, even after she found out about that murder he comitted. How could he not? He’s been hanging onto his phone for hours, unwilling to go anywhere, and then suddenly he rushes off with some terrible excuse? Please.

He’s not the one most upset by it. But he waves off the breathless, panicked objections. “He’s a good boy, MM. He wants to give her closure.”

“And you?” MM asks, as Butcher hefts the big rifle, something of a smile on his face. He loves this thing.

“I’m gonna make sure she gets it.”

-

“You came for me,” Hughie says, afterwards, in a disbelieving whisper, with his eyes brimming with tears. He still doesn’t understand. They’ve ducked into an alleyway, so Butcher can pack away the rifle and they can make it to the car without being immediately shot by the cops or worse. “Even though I- I left. I said all that stuff to you. I went against everything. She would have got me killed. I was so fucking stupid.”

He’s not. He’s the cleverest, best person Butcher knows, and he won’t stand for that kind of talk about his Hughie. Butcher reaches out, dares to touch with hands that have inflicted so much pain and suffering, to get Hughie to meet his eyes, so he knows it’s true when Butcher says, “I’d choose you too, you know.”

He sees confusion. He’s referring to the question he asked Hughie once, when Hughie said he’d choose Butcher over Starlight, like that wasn’t the worst possible decision he could ever make. Hughie knows he hates fucking Starlight, that he took great delight in shooting her in the fucking chest, that he’d always choose saving Hughie over her. He watches the realisation bloom, that he’s not talking about that fucking supe bitch, the wide-eyed surprise and horror that prove exactly why he’d make that choice.

They’ve touched on this before, that they’ve both been changed by their loss, that they’re not the same people they once were, when they had people who loved them. It’s been a long time since Butcher’s had to reach so deep for words, but he finds these ones: “You’re the only one who looks at me without flinching. I’d choose you.”

It’s the first time Hughie is ever the one to kiss him.

It’s not the last.

-

It’s for the best that Hughie leaves. Butcher was manipulating him, doesn’t know how to do anything without dragging down everyone around him anymore. He’s proved that. No matter if he’s proved a lot of other things, too. Because it wasn’t all part of a ploy to get Hughie on his side. He wouldn’t have needed sex for that.

The fact is, he wanted to touch, almost from the first moment. He wanted that body against his, to hear Hughie make sweet little sounds just for him, to kiss him and taste him and let Hughie’s goodness just consume him for a while. He hasn’t felt like that in so long.

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, though, to get back in that car and leave him behind. After all they’ve been through. Butcher should have known that with Hughie’s growing confidence would come conviction. And his devotion to people who aren’t Butcher.

He drives away already knowing that he’s doing the wrong thing, but he can do nothing else. He’s come so far, for this one purpose, and he’s never been closer to achieving it.

It’s for the best, anyway. Hughie deserves better.

-

The first chance he gets, after everything, after he should have just fucking died there, amidst the catastrophic conflagration of his own decisions, he calls Hughie. He shouldn’t. He can hear voices from the yard. Happy, fun, family noises. Fuck knows how well Homelander can hear. Butcher’s taking a huge risk just with this.

“Hello?” Hughie sounds tired, kind of sleepy, conjures up all sorts of images in Butcher’s mind. Maybe he’s in bed, half-dressed and gorgeous, sleep-warm and pliant. Butcher’s never woken up with him, aches with that loss keenly in that moment.

Maybe Starlight’s with him. She could be laying naked next to him. Not like Butcher can exactly fucking complain about that now.

He’s thought, almost constantly, about what he’s left behind. What he can possibly say, to begin to make up for any of it, for how wrong he was.

It has to be meaningful, but coded. Nothing that gives away exactly who he’s talking to, nothing that will bring the wrath of Becca’s psychopathic supe babydaddy down on all of them. This is his to bear alone. Butcher deserves it.

“Hello?” Hughie’s voice again. He’s so fucking sweet. Butcher would have sworn and hung up by now. He closes his eyes, and he lets himself feel, just for a moment, for long enough to say what is at once an apology and an explanation while not actually being either.

“I didn’t get a choice.”

He ends the call before he gets a response beyond Hughie’s sudden, surprised inhalation, pulls the sim card out, shoves the phone in the microwave and starts it up. He smells burning and hears a few small explosions. He swallows the sim card with a few gulps of water. He’ll deal with it later.

He doesn’t think about Hughie calling back, about him pacing, leaving message after message on his voicemail. He knows he’s alive. And that has to be enough.

-

Becca’s not the woman he loved, any more. And he’s not the man she married.

He asks her how she could have thought it was the right thing to do, to leave him with no idea of what had happened to her, stuck, endlessly searching for an explanation, for answers, for anything. She says she’d wanted to protect him, but it was the last thing he needed. He would rather have died knowing.

She looks at him like he’s being ridiculous. And she points out that he’s doing the exact same thing to whoever he’s left behind.

Fucks sake.

She’s not wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly this chapter is now an AU and not part of the ongoing canon, but I love it too much to take it out, so here it is!

Butcher doesn’t care where they are, only that they’re finally alone. He’s away from that fucking nightmare, and Hughie’s lopsided smile is the same as ever, hopelessly endearing. Butcher’s missed him.

He hardly dares to touch, has dreamed about this and desperately needs not to wake up, to be roused by the sheer intensity of his feelings, so they just linger in the moment, taking each other in.

Hughie looks uncertain. He’s growing in confidence every single day but Butcher’s always had the power to reduce that to nothing with a barbed comment, a pointed insult. Instead, he reaches out. He’s doing his best to smile but knows it probably resembles a grimace.

Hughie takes his hand anyway, allows himself to be drawn in for a hug. He laughs, a little hysterically. “Can you- call me a cunt, or something? This is freaking me out.”

Butcher just holds him tighter. He has an arm around Hughie’s waist, the other around his back so he can wrap his hand around the back of Hughie’s neck. He presses a kiss to a soft cheek, inhales the scent of his hair, lets warmth suffuse him and just holds on to something he’d thought he might never have again.

And it’s gradual, but Hughie relaxes against him, brings his arms up to cautiously enclose him and Butcher’s not going to fucking cry, he’s not, but he squeezes his eyes shut and tightens his hold and if Hughie hears his breath catch, he’s kind enough not to say anything.

He’s so fucking sweet, has that ridiculous balance Butcher was never able to find, the one between his savagery and his humanity.

Holding him is suddenly not enough. Butcher’s shaking, his traitorous body expressing the emotions his mind won’t let him speak. He kisses Hughie’s cheek, moving closer to his mouth with each subsequent press of lips in lieu of asking permission, brings his hand around to cradle his face as he’s gratefully welcomed, slants their mouths together so he can taste in the slide of their tongues and Hughie’s hold on him becomes an overwhelmed clinging.

So strong but so soft in the middle, and Butcher’s allowed to revel in all of it. Hughie clutches at him when Butcher presses a hand into the small of his back, bending him backwards while pulling him closer, keeping him off-balance and open. He’s breathless and so willing and Butcher wants to keep him with a ferocity that aches. Hughie’s not ready, he still lost Robin so fucking recently, but Butcher’s finally found answers to the questions he’s been asking all these years and they weren’t what he was looking for.

This, this quiet moment in a fucking raging sea of pain and catastrophe feels like it might be.

“Wait,” Hughie gasps against his lips when Butcher begins to explore beneath his shirt, when he sets unfamiliarly uncalloused, sensitive fingers to smooth, soft skin, just at his waist. It’s not a stop, so Butcher lets him go reluctantly, with slow, lingering kisses and touches, going no further than they already have. His efforts are received with soft sighs, a vaguely chastising look with the impact enormously lessened by Hughie’s blown-wide pupils, his flushed cheeks and pink, swollen lips. Fuck, Butcher never wants to let him go.

“I did something,” Hughie confesses next, and he’s standing like he feels guilty but his face is all embarrassment, like he’s been caught in the act of doing something vaguely dirty but he also sort of meant it to happen. It’s a good look on him, and Butcher wants to see more of it.

He settles for raising his eyebrows, glowering, using what size advantage he has, only a little worried about- “What?”

“It’s just- something you said once, and-“

“Hughie,” Butcher growls, and he doesn’t fail to notice the shiver that Hughie visibly suppresses at the sound. It sends a sweet little spark through him, too. “Fucking tell me, right now.”

“Let me show you,” Hughie steps back. He slips off his unbuttoned shirt, and then he toys with the hem of his T-shirt, takes a deep, shaky breath, looks up to meet Butcher’s eyes. He’s nervous, but his hands are steady and he’s still hard, jeans bulging. They fit together so well; Butcher loves every one of his kinks, his reactions. But he doesn’t like being made to wait. Especially when he’s already been gone for so long.

Hughie might see that in his eyes, or he might find his own resolve, but he tugs his shirt over his head and then stands there, awaiting judgement, letting the fabric drop, licking his lips, not really sure where to put his hands.

All that, Butcher is only aware of peripherally, because he’s caught, mind almost entirely blank, able to look at and consider only one single thing.

Technically two things.

“Hughie,” he says in a voice he doesn’t recognise, a dark, possessive, desirous one, raises trembling hands to rest on Hughie’s waist, has to know he’s within reach even if he doesn’t yet dare touch either of the shining silver piercings adorning Hughie’s lovely hard, pert nipples. Butcher’s mouth waters. “When?” is all he can ask.

“Months ago, uhh- right after you called. I just- needed something to hurt.”

“Hughie- baby-“ Butcher’s so careful not to touch, even as he closes the distance between them, unable to keep this sweet young man at arm’s length. He was so sensitive already, and this- “Did it work?”

“It hurt like fuck, for about a second. Like nothing I could even have imagined. And then it ached, for weeks. But nobody’s supposed to touch. I figured- if they were healed, and we hadn’t got you back, then-“ Hughie trails off, lost in his mind, imagining the worst. Imagining that Butcher could ever abandon him, that he would ever leave if he had even the slightest suggestion of a choice.

“They look like they’ve healed well.” It's not meant to sound like a question, but it does anyway. Butcher couldn't blame him if he'd sought- comfort elsewhere. He was holed up with his fucking wife, so he'd have to be an enormous hypocrite to deny Hughie a meaningful relationship in his absence. Hughie deserves so much better than what Butcher can offer him; the life on the run, always preparing for danger, committing crime, hurting people. He certainly deserves better than the last few months.

Butcher lets his hands settle more firmly on Hughie's waist. He can practically taste the metal, feel the click of it against his teeth, imagine the lovely little noises Hughie would make- but he hasn't been told to. He'll wait, even as his heart races and his breathing quickens.

"I didn't- there's been nobody else. I mean it's not exactly healthy, is it, so soon after everything? I didn't want to- give anyone false hope."

The _like I did to Starlight_ remains unsaid, but Butcher hears it anyway. He knows, even as possessive ardour clouds his mind. "So nobody's touched you. Not since-"

"Not since that time in the motel."

Yeah. Butcher's keeping him. "Well, then. Better get to making up for lost fucking time."

Hughie's lips twitch upwards at the pun, and Butcher's heart feels suddenly warm.

"Can I touch?" he risks asking, fingers already hovering so close to Hughie's chest he can feel the heat coming off him.

"Yeah, just- be careful, they're- ah- sensitive. God, fuck-"

Sensitive is right. Butcher's barely touched him, and yet he looks about ready to cream his pants. It's a pretty good fucking start, but he's not going to rush this. He's waited too long. "On the bed, sweetheart."

Hughie looks a little disconcerted by the address but obeys, shuffles backwards and then sits abruptly as his legs hit the edge of the bed. He fidgets, can't keep his hands still, until Butcher steps between his legs, nudges them with his own to urge Hughie to spread them further, and then sinks to his knees. Then, Hughie grips the edge of the mattress so tightly his knuckles turn white, staring, his breathing coming faster. Like he doesn't dare touch. Butcher knows how he feels.

It makes Hughie's chest heave attractively, and it allows Butcher to rest his hands on denim-clad thighs, squeezing lightly, attempting to soothe. It's never exactly been one of his talents, but with Hughie so close he doesn't mind the delay, leans in to press his lips to twitching stomach muscles, the solid dip of Hughie's sternum.

He can feel his heart pounding and he hums a little, hadn't known he needed soothing himself but is unspeakably relieved by the reminder that Hughie is safe and alive. Butcher's not going to make the same mistakes all over again, even if it's frankly a miracle that he hasn't already. Even if he's already done so much wrong, and Hughie's biggest flaw is that he's just too forgiving of Butcher's sins.

"You're perfect," he murmurs against soft skin to feel that kind heart beat faster, and he smiles. He can get closer if he loosely settles his arms around Hughie's rear, idly strokes his thumbs against the small of Hughie's back and then slowly, with plenty of warning, kisses his way to one of those beautifully adorned nipples. 

They look even better than he'd imagined, the bar threaded through them bringing them to permanent peaks, the silver balls at either side providing the perfect contrast to dusky skin.

Butcher presses his lips to one and almost moans at the feel of it, lets his eyes close to better savour the sensations, hears Hughie's breath hitch. He's still being unspeakably gentle, laps with his tongue and earns a soft whine torn between pleas for more and less. He's going to have so much fun with these but for the moment he settles for exploring, just touches of his lips and tongue, memorising every detail. He needs this.

Hughie lets out a sweet little moan when Butcher wraps his mouth around the whole thing and suckles wetly. He teases with his tongue, and Hughie shudders, breathing shaky, one hand coming up to thread through Butcher's hair. He doesn't push him away or pull him closer, just cradles his head, leaning back on his other hand. His hips twitch when Butcher's teeth graze metal, already warmed by skin and heated further by his mouth.

It's the work of a moment to get Hughie out of his jeans, to just slide those and his underwear down enough without removing his mouth from Hughie's chest. He bites lightly into the fleshy part of Hughie's pectoral, wraps his hand around Hughie's lovely, hard cock and strokes, just a few times, enough to make Hughie squirm. It’s nothing compared to what he will be doing. Butcher kisses the fluttering muscles of his stomach to tease him and breathe in the scent of him, and then he lifts his head, seeking a kiss Hughie hesitantly leans down for. It''s a brief moment where Butcher can savour the soft sweetness he hasn’t had in so long; he’s thought about this a hundred times and never once did it measure up to the real thing.

Hughie looks at him with concern afterwards, though, because none of this seems like him, because he never knew Butcher before he was willing to do anything just to feel. And Butcher loves what they have, the breathless sharp intensity of it, but he’s still coming back from feeling like he’d lost everything, all over again. He spent every day terrified he’d find out something had happened, that Hughie was gone, out of his reach. Or that Homelander would just unceremoniously deliver a corpse to his door for perceived bad behaviour. His hold tightens instinctively.

“Let me have this,” Butcher breathes, and then he smiles. “Promise I’ll ruin you, next time.”

“You’d better.” But Hughie kisses him, slow and deep, and he’s warm and solid and real in Butcher’s arms. Butcher loves the submissive, pain-loving side of Hughie but just sometimes, rarely, occasionally, he needs to be gentle, to treat him like he's precious.

He’ll be able to convince Hughie around to his way of thinking anyway, reluctantly releases him from the kiss and only spends an instant drowning in blown-wide, trusting eyes before ducking his head and wrapping his lips around the head of Hughie’s cock.

It earns him a soft, hitching cry and trembling fingers in his hair. Hughie’s thighs are thicker, harder than they used to be and they squeeze Butcher’s sides as he works, taking Hughie deep, sucking wetly. He remembers promising this once, back when they knew they didn’t have all the time in the world but acted like they did, like they could offer each other any kind of future. The certainty that Butcher wants to, and yet can’t, is cemented more firmly than ever in his mind, and it manifests in an intense desire to have everything, all at once, to leave Hughie sobbing and overwhelmed with his attempts.

He can start with this. It's unfamiliar but undeniably enjoyable, the heavy weight pressing down on his tongue, satiny skin sliding past his lips. While he doesn’t know any flashy tricks, Hughie’s little gasping sounds of pleasure spur him on alongside the nails scratching at his scalp as Hughie tries not to pull his hair.

Butcher wouldn’t mind if he did, but he’s not stopping for long enough to express that, just swallows and lets the constriction of his throat, the involuntary twitching of his gag reflex, the caress of his tongue coax Hughie into coming with a low groan.

It’s not exciting or intense, but it gets Hughie how Butcher wants him, relaxed and pliant, kind of sleepy, unresisting as Butcher hauls him back onto the bed properly, helps him out of his clothing, strips off his own with lidded eyes on him all the while. Hughie’s smiling just slightly, his breathing slowing, limbs heavy. He can barely reach for Butcher when he crawls over him, blankets him, maximises the amount of glorious warm skin pressed against his own, the unhurried friction between them.

Maybe it’s drifting a little more towards being hurried. Butcher’s waited so long, and he wants to make this last, but with Hughie licking the taste of himself from Butcher’s mouth, it’s becoming- hard.

Butcher smiles into the kiss, props himself up on an elbow so he can smooth his fingers up Hughie’s chest, spread his palm wide and wrap a hand around his beautiful, slim throat. He loves to feel that pulse pound, to know that all he has to do is squeeze and Hughie will gasp and shudder and moan. He’s so trusting, and Butcher might be wholly undeserving but in this moment he would never dream of hurting him.

Not more than he wants, needs, so sweetly begs for, anyway. He presses his thumb and first finger into the hinges of Hughie’s jaw to urge his mouth open for a deep, wet kiss, grins at the moment of free thought that makes Hughie wrinkle his nose at how messy it is before he sinks into how good it feels. He never objects. It astounds Butcher sometimes, just what Hughie would let him do. He’s killed and knows Butcher’s done the same, and yet he relaxes against the sheets, sighs, completely submitting.

Butcher’s hard, the length of him grinding against the planes of Hughie’s stomach, occasionally catching on the hollow of his hip. Hughie hisses a little, oversensitive, when his not-quite soft cock is touched. Butcher wants to suckle on him until he hardens, wants to keep Hughie in his bed for days and do every single thing his lust-addled brain had conjured up during their period of enforced separation.

He hopes they’ll have time, knows they won’t, leaves Hughie’s lips slick and swollen, slightly parted as he pants, breathless from just a kiss. He releases Hughie’s jaw, too, explores downwards, tracing the lines of pronounced clavicles, the beginnings of muscle in Hughie’s shoulders. He’s been busy in Butcher’s absence, and the clearest evidence of that is just so close, shining, making a brief, light sound when Butcher flicks one with a fingernail. “Tell me what happened.”

Hughie blinks a few times, collects his thoughts, responds breathlessly. “The woman who did it- she sat me down, told me to take my shirt off. She clamped, and then pulled, and it kind of ached, and then- she slid the needle in. Like she was- cutting fucking butter. It just went right through. It hurt so fucking much. I thought I was going to pass out. Think I would’ve bolted before the second one, if I’d been able to stand. They weren’t totally happy I was by myself, but-“

There, Hughie stalls. Butcher had been toying idly with one of the piercings, making him squirm throughout, so he doesn’t think it’s that. He pulls a little, and Hughie whimpers.

“Tell me,” he urges, hovering over that sensitive spot, warming it with his breath. Hughie squirms more. Butcher ducks his head to kiss his sternum, and the lack of eye contact, he guesses, makes it easier for Hughie to say, a whispered, strangled confession to the man who has seen him commit any number of cardinal sins, “I told them I wanted to surprise my boyfriend.”

Butcher’s heart seizes. He breathes, lingers, tastes salt sweat on Hughie’s skin, the pounding of his heart. Humans are so fragile. He knows that better than anyone, and he’s just been given licence to cut more deeply than he could with any knife. He sets a hand on a trembling stomach, hopes it’s warm and soothing even though neither of those things come naturally to him, because fuck knows if this is the right thing to say. “I’m pretty fucking surprised, alright.”

“You- are?”

Butcher knows what he’s asking. He meets wide, terrified eyes, full of tears for all the wrong reasons, and he nods, cautiously pleased when Hughie looks- just as cautiously pleased. They’re a right fucking pair. But their jagged edges fit well. They don’t soften each other so much as piece together, combine to make one bigger, more powerful fuck-up.

They’ll be each other’s downfall, but there, at that moment, Butcher thinks it might just be worth it.

And it is. Oh, it is. He will not be stopped, tonight, not when he knows he came so close to losing this, all that he had and all the potential they have yet to be. He’s done with repeating his own mistakes, fulfils every urge he’s been dreaming of fulfilling, and a few more that never even occur to him until that moment.

He kisses Hughie’s stomach, to feel the muscles there ripple and hear the hitching sounds of his breath as Butcher holds him still, wraps hands around his hips and delicately, gently laps at the soft, wet tip of his cock. Hughie squirms, whimpers but doesn’t deny him even though he knows he could, maybe knows this is what they both need. He’s incredible, all that strength bending to Butcher’s will, even though he’s never been scared to stand up to him, has always had a fiery, wonderful will of his own.

He’s stood tall in the face of every one of Butcher’s worst moments, faced up to superhumans without flinching, but when it’s just the two of them he’s trusting enough to let Butcher turn him into a sweet, sobbing mess. His tremulous, breathy sounds are never objections, the restless shifting of his hips nothing like attempts to pull away, even when Butcher takes the fragile, sensitive length of him in his mouth and sucks.

He does scream, a little. But Butcher knows his noises, can tell the good from the bad and even cares which is which. Hughie craves more than even he believes he can take, and Butcher plans to deliver.

Butcher himself is hard, aching, dripping. Every single overwhelmed sound from Hughie shivers right down his spine to pool close to his stomach, tempting and dangerous. Not as tempting as his continued exploration of Hughie’s body and limits. It’s slow, and he knows he has to be gentle, but he’s waited this long to find his answers. He’s ready to take his time. His jaw hurts, and all he wishes is that he could see the effect he’s having, because Hughie’s breathing is laboured, all his desperate little noises pitched high and cracking. He sounds like he’s close to tears, and Butcher is willing to bet he’s never looked more beautiful.

And he’s all his. Butcher’s hold tightens instinctively, possessively, and Hughie groans, finally threads trembling fingers through his hair just to touch him. He grounds himself with his nails scratching Butcher’s scalp, with the hesitant clenching of a fist in his hair. He wants this, wants him, and Butcher shudders with the vice grip of it around his heart, as though Hughie’s reached into his chest and squeezed.

Butcher suffers from obsession more than love these days but for the first time, as Hughie shivers and quakes and falls utterly silent while he pulses feebly on Butcher’s tongue, he feels like he might be able to stretch to both.

The realisation that he wants that makes his head spin, although he tells himself it’s the lack of oxygen for a moment longer, crawls back up to claim Hughie’s mouth and kiss him, entirely in control, Hughie lax and pliant and still shivering with the intensity of the aftershocks. Uncoordinated, he reaches for Butcher, who allows his touch while it skims over his shoulders, down his back, around his arms.

When Hughie attempts to reach lower, he murmurs, “Not yet,” against a sweat damp cheek, and hears a shuddering breath past his ear in response.

“You’re trying to kill me,” Hughie slurs into a clumsy kiss, turning his head to just brush their mouths together, soft and lazy.

“I think we’ve established,” Butcher can’t resist, lathes Hughie’s bottom lip with his tongue, tastes him, “That if I were trying to kill you, you’d be dead by now.”

Hughie mewls and he goes when Butcher moves him, to lay on his front with only a soft sound at the press of his abused cock and sensitive nipples against the sheets. Butcher pulls him up onto his knees, steadies his trembling legs and he’s missed the blissful, harsh intimacy of all they do, but this one deep, rich taste and abject display of vulnerability more than anything else.

There’s no rush. Hughie’s young, but he still needs time to recover. Time during which Butcher can slowly, inexorably lick him open. He could do this for hours, is more than willing to wait despite the ache in his jaw, lavishes attention on the sensitive nerves around Hughie’s tight, resistant hole, untouched since Butcher last had the honour himself.

There’s no way it can possibly hurt but Hughie groans like it does, and he pushes back for more. He’s so soft inside, and Butcher begs to be allowed more, to slide deeper while he sucks and lathes, seeking the secret pink colour inside, hot and smooth and copper-tasting. He’s careful of his teeth, knows that will send this over the edge from a lot into the realms of too much, and the second Hughie asks him to stop, he will. This isn't about him.

Butcher pauses only to look, to massage his own jaw as he watches Hughie’s hole, slick and swollen, clutch at nothing, like it’s missing the heat of his tongue. His thighs, tense and taut, tremble, and his back glistens with sweat, his head hanging between his folded arms and his mouth open so he can pant, raggedly.

“So fucking beautiful, Hughie,” Butcher says, and Hughie makes a surprised, choking sound, turns his head just enough to look with lidded, dark eyes, unfocused and confused. Like maybe Butcher might be in the habit of lying about such things. Like his broken, tremulous moan when Butcher finally slides a spit-slick finger into him could be considered anything other than utterly gorgeous.

He’s perfectly imperfect, everything Butcher wants even at his worst, and he ripples, so hot and soft around Butcher’s finger. So open, all his vulnerabilities there for Butcher to see and touch and penetrate.

Before he can take more, though, Butcher works his tongue in beside that finger, feels the muscles clench when he finds Hughie’s deliciously sensitive prostate, hears him whine with helpless pleasure. It’s only Butcher’s hand wrapped around a knee that keeps him upright, holds him up and open. He’d collapse, otherwise, into a sweetly breathless sprawl before Butcher could ease a second finger in alongside the first.

He keeps Hughie slick and relaxed with the lap of his tongue, but mostly he just applies pressure, varied enough that the sparks of vicious, sharp stimulation never stop.

Hughie’s sobbing, trembling all over by the time he starts to push back, close, and Butcher rubs at the spot inside him that makes his cock drip with pearly fluid, makes him squeeze his eyes shut so that tears falls and his voice is thick with emotion when he begs, senselessly, for more.

There is no more to be given, not of this, but Butcher’s not going to stop, wants to see and hear and feel Hughie fall apart, entirely wrecked and hopelessly beautiful, coming so hard it hurts, just for him. Only for him.

“It hurts, Butcher, please,” Hughie slurs without a hint of regret or resistance, spreading shaking legs as much as he can manage, rolling his hips back into Butcher’s relentless stimulation.

“Just breathe, Hughie. Let it happen. We’ve got all night,” It’s easy to let his tone slide deep with promise, even as he says those words out loud for the first time, opens them up to the perils of making their desires known. The universe has never been on their side.

But Butcher has so many plans, and working Hughie into overwhelmed, fucked-out compliance is just one of them. His cock throbs at the thought and he scissors his fingers just to better imagine how its going to feel when he’s buried inside, surrounded by soft, wet heat. It’s been building for so long, has been all he could think about sometimes.

Hughie’s glorious body is tense, every single line of muscle taut and defined. He sniffles, and then he begins to cry, soft, sincere little sounds escaping him with every breath. The rolling of his hips becomes jerkier, more desperate, and Butcher presses a kiss to the sweat-slick small of his back, to run a hand soothingly up and down his spine.

It’s a lot, he knows. Maybe more than Hughie’s ever been through, and it’s going to feel like a merciful death when he does finally come, and then Butcher’s going to ask a little more of him. Just a little. He’ll hardly have to do anything at all.

Butcher slicks his fingers with previously-stashed lube, cool and soothing before he reaches around with his free hand, wraps it around Hughie’s hot, hard cock and strokes, just once, then twice. Hughie comes with a strangled scream. His body quakes, but there’s only the slightest dribble of fluid as he clenches so tight Butcher thinks his fingers might bruise. He eases off, caresses those shifting, silken walls as he withdraws, allows Hughie to collapse onto the sheets, panting. Butcher pets his back, his thighs, his arms, crawls up to press kisses to the sweat-damp skin of his throat, to nose at his hairline.

Hughie keens so softly in answer. He feels cold, and Butcher blankets his body with his own, presses against him, makes the urgency of his own arousal known.

“Hughie,” he murmurs softly, with more kisses beneath Hughie’s ear, making him sigh, content. “May I?” he asks, will always ask, with a questioning touch of his fingertips to Hughie’s heated, loosened hole.

He won’t, not if Hughie doesn’t or cannot say, but thank fuck he does, lazily sprawling wider, spreading his legs, so completely open. Butcher lubes in a hurry, and his eyes threaten to roll back at even the pleasurable stroke of his own hand. He bites back all kinds of curses as he presses in, doesn’t even know why, only that this moment is too perfect and precious to be marred with vulgarity.

Except Hughie’s long, purred, emphatic, _“Fuck,”_ is maybe the best thing he’s ever heard.

Butcher smiles, broad and honest, against the back of his neck. Hughie’s soft and wet and so hot it feels like he might burn, inside, completely unresisting as Butcher slides in. Slides home, pushes until he can press his chest to Hughie’s back and just breathe in how it feels to be so close to him again.

When he lifts his head from the back of Hughie’s neck, his face is wet. Sweat -maybe- drips onto Hughie’s skin, and for a moment Butcher is gripped with terror that he might corrupt him somehow, that maybe the worst parts of him will bleed through and spread like a poison.

Except Hughie has always been willing to say no to him. He’s argued and fought and walked away. If Butcher can’t trust himself to be good, always, he can trust Hughie to stop him.

He wants to stay here forever, wants to sleep like this, connected deeply and undeniably, as close as they can possibly be. His libido has other ideas. Hughie is desirable as well as precious, and they’ve both waited so long and even though the motions of his hips are long and slow, the slide blissfully easy, Hughie only letting out the softest, breathless sounds, Butcher shakes and shudders out his own completion far too soon.

“Got all night,” Hughie mumbles, or something like it, and reaches back to stroke Butcher’s hair when he mindlessly sobs his gratitude and relief into Hughie’s skin.

They do have all night. Maybe it’s all they’ll have, but Butcher will never regret a single second of it.


End file.
